I am certainly no stranger to such sentimentality. I suffer from the same fear of time. I, too, am plagued by nostalgia.
It's a big responsibility, these brief, fragile days of youth we are entrusted with. We must make the most of them. There are times when I worry I am squandering them, allowing them to be wasted while my children plug in so I can attend to the business of running a house or find a few moments for myself. That guilt serves as a powerful motivator. The knowledge that there are a finite number of days that we will share together makes me pack up a picnic to be eaten after a morning full of dentist appointments. It takes me to a park so my kids can hang from monkey bars and roll down hills, find dandelions to make wishes on and push each other down slides. I didn't really want to do it -- there were a dozen things I felt like I should do-- but we were already going to be out and dressed and on the move, so why
Lately I have found myself afraid of dying, afraid of the time when I will leave this earth. I believe in Jesus and heaven and eternal life, and even still, I'm afraid of departing this earth, this life. I'm not afraid of an untimely death. I'm afraid that 100 years, should I be given them, would still not be enough. I know I can't give myself a single extra day, but I know that I can do the best I can with the ones I am given. Yesterday it meant taking my kids to Quiet Waters Park. Tomorrow it means visiting friends. Sunday it means celebrating with my family. Each day it means I need to find joy and give it.